Last Bath

The sting of searing white pain burns as the sharpened knife drives into flesh and bone. The warmth of blood pouring like a fountain out of the incision, this perfect tragedy.

The clear water begins to darken red, the bubbles begin to turn a sort of brown inside the bathtub. There's still a sound of a drip from the faucet and it's almost a tranquil transition. The sound of the drip inside the tub begins to pound louder as it slams into the body of water.

The knife makes another slice down into flesh. There is only the sound of the faucet and everything else loses focus. The blinding pain forces light to shine brilliantly from the single hanging light bulb. Swinging to and fro shifting shadows here and there like how a wax candle flickers.

A picture of a beach with footsteps in sand, words expressing the holiest of holy men dims out of sight. The darkness wraps its bitter hands around the room and the pain subsides. The hands of the void cradle like a mother to an infant and chant a subtle calming lullaby. She begs for slumber and rest.

The water turns deep red and the bubbles collapse to floating brown suds on the surface. The knife pulls out of the bone and sinks to the bottom of the porcelain tub. The muffled noise of metal hits the watery grave and disrupts the silence of the manic faucet.

The light returns and friends and family are heard chuckling. The carving of a chicken and the tearing of Christmas presents' wrapping on a chilly morning overwhelm me. The sounds of children at play, the splashing of a cannonball in the public pool on a hot summer day consume me.

The water is thick with blood and you can't see the bottom. The light bulb flickers brown and continues its pendulum sway like a slow moving ballerina. Heavy, panic breathing turns into weak, slow heaving. The dripping faucet now accompanies a thumping heart. The swing of the chain on the light bulb chimes against glass and one could only think of a classic concerto.

A childhood play in the fifth grade, the audience claps for their children. A dinner with the family, no particular evening, seems like a distant past. Talking about the day and how things were, what is planed for tomorrow. The public zoo, the dolphin exhibit and a show with those dolphins always smiling and jumping around in their pools, they’re carefree like life was supposed to be.

There is no tomorrow in the veil of darkness. This cold red water, these brown suds glowing from the swinging shadows of a brown hued bulb almost turn the bathroom to a contemporary work of art. The knife remains unmoving, slid down to the lounging wet fleshy hip. The touch of metal feels awkward and chilling.

It grows blurry and distant and the room appears alien and unrecognizable. Like how a drunk who has had too much to drink, praises to the porcelain in a kneeling humble hold to the bowl of the toilet. He doesn't pay attention to the towels or design of the sink, nor does he notice anyone else around him, watching, laughing, and trying to help. The drunkard only cares about offering sacrifices of chunky vomit to the swirl, self consumed in how much he hates his life. The pain of raising bile in the throat and nose is unbearable; he swears never to drink again.

It's painless in the tub, the cold water. The sting of the knife tipped lightly into a fleshy bear rump almost becomes comfortable. The meaningless brown suds float without care. The air feels stagnant and the surface of the water is as still as glass.

The beating of a calm heart, weakening and slows down for the end. The constant drip of the faucet and one can't help but wonder how long it will be until the water overfills the tub.
Everything drains into the tub, now a thick brilliant red that can't be turned into a Crayola color. Under the brown lighting, the water is black like tar. Everything is in a shade of grey. It is impossible to make out images, producing a rational thought, or moving. He’s far too exhausted from watching the tub turn transparent to black, lounging in the pool of body fluids and simply amazed by how much blood there is.

A distant yelling is heard from the other room. Maybe someone is home. Maybe they'll decide to take a shower. One can't help but think how funny their reaction would be, seeing the darkness, the swinging bulb and a white body stained in red liquids. A Kodak moment. Priceless.

Cursing is heard and things are thrown around in the other room. It sounds like the kitchen is hit by a hurricane. Your favorite coffee mug shatters on the ground. That would make perfect sense. The roaring is female, a lioness, and a hate monger with a calloused heart. Lying in the pool, nearly sleeping, tired, cold, weak, my heart isn't filled with fury. The eyes close and a smile is brought to the lips. One can't help but think what an excuse to not argue tonight.

It wasn't always fighting. The first kiss on top of the 1964 Chevy pickup parked on a hillside overlooking the small city lights. The distant sound of a hiway in the distance, but that didn't matter. The evening was perfect then.

I love you to death, she said on top of me and me on top of the hood of my truck. And you thought it was a figure of speech!

The wedding was like a dream. Friends and family were all around us, greeting and celebrating at our union, like they care. I know how much the in-laws enjoy my company. She was an angel under that lacey veil. Smiling brighter than the sun, holding her hand at the altar I knew she was the one for me. We spoke our vows and I was overwhelmed with emotion. I was proud that I had her. If I knew then what I know now.

Father Jordan pronounced us man and wife. Until death do we part, she said to his blessing. If only she knew how true that commitment was, I wonder if she would be prepared for what happens later.

Our first child was born at Saint Mary's Pediatric down the road. Built below the hill where we first kissed. Our boy was born on Valentine's Day of 1992. I took video footage of her screaming like a beast. Sweating and growling like some primal animal. The first screams of my baby boy, William Francis.

The last screams of our baby boy were on Christmas of 2000. William fell from the stairs and slammed his head on the cold tile. He bled everywhere and again we rushed to Saint Mary's hospital. The doctors would say they did everything they could. They said there was nothing more they could do for him. They offered their condolences, but one can't help but think how many times a day he says it to other people.

Life was never the same without William Francis. The lioness became bitter and any man in their right sense would be driven to drinking. After work there was the bar, then home. Her voice was as distant as it is now. After enough drinks anything is possible. Everything can be turned on and off by just focusing or not. The attention span of a three-year old.

Her voice is ignored now, I no longer hear a ruckus and perhaps she left to the bar to check up on her husband. Maybe she'll return for a shower later and find that her tub is clogged with blood. One can't help but wonder what sort of scene she'll make about that, but her husband will ignore her. The eyes will be closed and a smile on the face, lips stained in blood and cold as death.

Maybe that's how it's imagined anyways.

The void consumes, the body becomes cold, and the heart taps its final beats and surrenders to the tranquility. The breathing stops, the lungs take in their final breath and this is it. This is the death coil. There was no dramatic twitching or hairballs like they show on television. I can't help but think with my final thoughts how perverse television is. How it consumes people that death is a beautiful thing.

My final thought while my brain shuts down is why did I do what I did. I'm beginning to have second thoughts about this. I'm thinking I made a mistake. I don't want this. It's too late.